


The Man in the Armchair

by rael_ellan



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Implied Violence, M/M, implied sex, mostly supposed to be humour, of the action type, tiny bit of character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rael_ellan/pseuds/rael_ellan
Summary: “Arthur? Why is there a dead man sat in my armchair?”





	The Man in the Armchair

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for literally years. It was originally supposed to be part of a larger story, but I just can't connect it up, so here it is. 
> 
> It's... old. But it's here now, so there's that.

Eames had always been painfully, woefully aware that Arthur was a dangerous man to piss off. You could tell in a single glance if you knew what to look for; the way he stiffened, just slightly, when anyone called him ‘kid’; the way he didn’t blink twice when somersaulting off the top of a building into a waterfall; the way he checked his gun constantly in the dreamscape, but never in reality. It was evident even when he was at his most vulnerable, his gun resting beside his totem as he stared himself down in the mirror, straightening his tie in the morning. Or the afternoon. Or late at night when he had to go back to the warehouse for some work.

It wasn’t usually something that bothered Eames; he was, after all, a fairly dangerous man himself. But then, it had to be said, sometimes he just _forgot_. He lost himself in the waves of Arthur’s hair when he came out of the shower, the little frown on his forehead when Eames came home with a kitten one night. Arthur was... _Arthur_ , and his dramatic, legendary glares were somewhat undermined when you knew he liked to make little pictures with his toast and eggs.

But something always happened, around about the time Eames started to lose sight of the danger, to remind him.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

“Why is there a dead man sat in my armchair?”

“Oh.”

Arthur emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel and scowling.

“Coffee?”

“Strong, is it?”

Arthur disappeared again, accompanied by the rhythmical clang and rattle of the kettle boiling.

Eames sank back onto the sofa and regarded the man carefully. There was... not a lot to say about him, really. He didn’t look to be that old - early forties, perhaps. He was dressed all in black – black shirt, black shoes, black suit trousers – nothing special. Nothing to mark him out from the hundreds of people Eames walked past every day. Except, of course, for the rather large hole in his chest. 

Arthur re-emerged with two cups of coffee, placing them both down on their small table, before sinking down next to Eames.

“So what happened to this poor bugger, then?” He took a swig of the coffee and winced. It was strong. Perfect.

Arthur shrugged.

“He came at me with a knife, so I shot him.”

Arthur took a biscuit from the tin on the table and dunked it into his coffee.

Eames stared at him, his own soggy biscuit momentarily forgotten.

“You shot him?”

“Yep.”

“With _what_?”

“Bullets.”

Rather valiantly, Eames resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Yes, well, _obviously_. I meant what kind of a gun has bullets that do,” he waved a hand rather frantically in the direction of the Dead Man in His Armchair, “that?”

Arthur - deadly, dangerous, darling Arthur - smiled.

“A big one.”

He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. 

“You gonna show me, then?” Eames asked, and tried not to sound too testy.

“Maybe,” Arthur said. His voice was raspy in that particular way that usually meant- “But you’ll have to convince me.,”

Eames blinked. He stared at Arthur: legs crossed, head tilted, coffee cup ignored against his lips. He stared, incredulous, at the dead man in the armchair. 

He grinned. 

“I can do that.”


End file.
